


Seating Arrangements

by eleventy



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, category 5 flirtation, condoms and consent but not like an after school special, entirely too many usages of the word "cock", helpful sister is helpful, inappropriate behavior at a wedding, overly articulate nerds in love, russian fingers and roman hands, sex behind a shrubbery, sometimes social obligations aren't so bad, stay hydrated kids, theater kids all grown up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-27 01:23:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17757137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eleventy/pseuds/eleventy
Summary: I mostly write pr0n to break through writer's block for fanfic, and I don't write it for an audience, but I'm sharing it because a little self-exposure and vulnerability is good for my soul.





	Seating Arrangements

**Author's Note:**

> I mostly write pr0n to break through writer's block for fanfic, and I don't write it for an audience, but I'm sharing it because a little self-exposure and vulnerability is good for my soul.

This was one of the weddings one attends because one is not in the habit of snubbing old friends, even if said old friend marries into the kind of upper middle class Connecticut money that mandates a fancy dress code and chalky candied almonds in little sachets next to each plate. I dutifully booked the hotel room, bought the immersion blender off the registry, and sent back the RSVP, forlornly bare of Plus One. At the last minute I decided I should have a suitably festive and seasonable dress that hadn’t already been to other weddings in that friends group, and I complained about that to my sister, Lisa. “Will you trust me?” she asked. 

“To make my life difficult,” I said, but she had taken that chore off my hands. The day before I was leaving, she put me in the thing she’d bought me. Lisa was evil, not unkind, so it was beautiful - all pine green silk crepe in a style that clung above and swished below. Not an inch of luxurious fabric was wasted on foolish modesty. “This is a Catholic wedding!” I protested. 

“So wear a mantilla,” Lisa said, unceremoniously reaching down my decolletage to fluff my tits. 

“I hate you so much right now.” 

“You’ll love me when you go home with a bridesmaid or a groomsman.”

“Or somebody I meet at the precinct when I get cited for indecency.”

“You’re more covered up than the weather woman on News 9. Live a little.” 

The morning of the wedding, a different weather woman in a different state was in a translucent yellow sundress and forecasting 89 and hazy. Afterwards, the gleaming, flowing evergreen material of the dress lay smooth and cool on my skin, and I practiced walking in my heels in my hotel room before seeing the time, grabbing my bag, and running, gazelle-like (gazelles also land funny and twist their ankles sometimes, I’m sure) down the hall. I checked myself out happily in the dull, wobbly reflection of the elevator wall and composed myself for a serene strut across the lobby and out to where an Uber was waiting for me and a few other guests. There were swaths of my skin that hadn’t seen sunlight since certain baby pictures were taken, but today was a day out of time, and I was not obligated to be quite like myself.

For the ceremony, I wore a shawl and sat with my knees bent primly sideways, hyperaware of the length of my skirt relative to the height at which delicate clips fastened my stockings to my garter belt. There was, to my thinking, far too much getting up and kneeling in the Roman Rite, at least if the overall goal were not to flash the congregants. Julia and Tim stood together in the stained glass filtered sunlight before the altar. They did not look like themselves in their conventional wedding get-ups, but their faces made up for it. Their multiple attendants and the Barbados-accented priest kindly shepherded them through the ceremony, leaving them to concern themselves with nothing more than to gaze giddily at each other, and say something like the correct words at the right moment. It was accomplished and they were duly hitched. We made our way through the handshakes and congratulations into the sunny street. Mindful of my duty to bring home a juicy tale for Lisa, I scoped out the bridesmaids and groomsmen. Some younger siblings, Julia’s older brother, of course, my old roommate Liz (been there, done that, escaped and never doing that again), Tim’s best friend Andy (not bad looking, but had a habit of lecturing to women about their own areas of expertise), and… well that was it. I texted Lisa with the rundown as I waited for the Uber.

:( aww have fun anyway  
Just remember ur butt looks great  
Maybe if u wiggle it somebody will show up

Why are you trying so hard to get me laid?

So u stop using up all the aa batteries and go somewhere else to rattle the house and shriek in the dead of night like a horny poltergeist

LISA!!!

Have funnnnnnn

 

The reception was blissfully air conditioned, with the ubiquitous gold-painted fake bamboo chairs around tables with floor length cloths that matched the bridesmaids’ dresses. An elaborate cake loomed in one corner, sort of a chocolate ziggurat with gold curlicues all over. High-velocity children menaced women teetering on dainty high heeled sandals. Smooth jazz played at an inoffensive volume, and a few people were gamely attempting to dance already. Catering staff were distracting the crowd with drinks and trays of appetizers while the wedding party presumably got their pictures taken. 

Unencumbered by a date, I circuited the room and found my table. Not a relative, I was, predictably, in a far corner. According to the cards, I was seated with a few people we’d known from college and some strangers. None of them had seated themselves yet, so I put myself back in the heart of the throng to intercept a glass of wine and some stuffed mushrooms. I carried my festively evident booty back to my seat and made up my mind to enjoy the festivities. Dan and Tamara were nice people. 

The names I had recognized, Dan and Tamara, appeared to be no-shows. An elderly couple introducing themselves as great aunt and uncle of the groom, and a pair of matrons who never stopped chatting but did not introduce themselves at all joined me. That seemed to be my assigned company for at least as long as food was being served. One last person found his way to the table and took the seat beside me. Instantly, my mood brightened. “Steve,” he introduced himself. One of Tim’s friends, and we remembered each other as distant acquaintances. Actually I remembered him quite a lot better than that. He’d been a senior when I’d been a freshman. “You were in my Music Theory class,” I said. I did not mention that the only reason I hadn’t dropped that elective was that it gave me a chance to ogle him. He’d had long dark hair and glasses and made enough astute comments in class that I’d developed an instant crush. 

“Oh I do remember you,” he said. “Were you a music major?”

“Anthropology,” I said, determined to come up with a way to turn this into a conversation.

“What do you do with a degree in anthropology?” he asked.

I should have felt on the spot. I was always uncomfortable when talking to new people, but instead I felt like he was making it easy. “I coordinate fundraising for a non-profit organization that gives out environmental rehabilitation grants.”

“That makes perfect sense,” he said, grinning. “Just like my music degree led me to an exciting career in the manufacture and distribution of acoustic insulation.” 

“Of course,” I said, sliding my wineglass slightly closer to his place so that my hand would have occasion to stray closer to his, which rested on the table and had no wedding ring. His eyes were warm, and a dark green that reflected my dress. His smile had not diminished and his attention hadn’t strayed. I gave silent thanks to Lisa for reminding me to wear what she called a Tactical Bra, because it was not just the brisk air conditioning that was making my nipples harden. If it hadn’t been for the slight padding, he would have been able to tell how very happy I was to see him. As it was, I feared he could smell it on me as my panties grew increasingly damp. 

I looked around quickly. Ned and Whitney and the two chatterbox old ladies were thoroughly engrossed in tales of weddings past. Food was beginning to be served at the high table. Steve and I were virtually alone in the crowd. I felt a demanding pang of desire and the tingling rise of heat to my skin. Even when not in active conversation with me, Steve remained inclined toward me, his eyes returning to me, his face an expression of open approval. I took in his broad hands and long fingers, the angular, pleasant face in profile, the slight crows feet that crinkled around his eyes when he smiled, which he often did. He was wearing a dark suit, but had hung his jacket on the chair. His hair was still long, ink-dark and glossy, and tied back in a ponytail that rested between strong shoulder blades. A spicy, warm smell rose from his skin and did things to a primitive and hungry part of my brain. I shifted in my chair, very conscious of the air against all of my exposed and heated skin. 

Food was served, a relief for me from the obligation to make intelligent conversation while my mind was completely occupied with speculations of what his body might feel like atop me. My appetite had fled. I gave my compromised attention to a plate of excellent roast beef while we discussed parks, and the rival Shakespeare in the Park companies, and traded our best examples of “modern interpretations” gone horribly wrong - or right. My knee grew hot with the new proximity of his, and then his pressed against mine. I did not freeze. I made myself not freeze, and continue to eat, continue to talk while my pussy throbbed and burned. Carefully, I pressed back in welcome, daring a glance and a smile. His smile in return was slow and wide, and predatory as his hand reached under the table to stroke my knee. “Lovers cannot see the pretty follies that themselves commit,” he murmured, glancing down as if through the table at us. 

“Oh, good quote!” I breathed. “But badly out of context.”

“You are very much not dressed as a boy.” 

“Also, it’s a depressing play,” I said, feeling his attention and deflecting hard. 

“What would you prefer?” he asked, stroking a little higher and moving my skirt out of the way.

“How about Much Ado?” I asked breathlessly.

“How about it, fair Beatrice?” 

“Ohhhh, I take it back. First she’s snarky and then goes all schmoopy. I can’t give you a Beatrice quote,” I said, finally taking my hand below the table, first to stroke the fingers of his hand where it lay on my thigh, and then to stray across to his own leg.

“If you forfeit, it’s my turn. ‘Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably,’” he said, leaning in. 

I let my legs fall wide to invite him, and explored with my own hand, seeking through the wool of his trousers to elicit the breathless wanting he’d brought out in me. “‘I would not deny you; but, by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion; and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption.”

“Skipping ahead? Bold woman. I’ll show you a consumption. I’ll devour you.” Stunned at that imagery and flooded with want, I found his cock with my hand and closed around its searing heat, hardness confined and straining. My fingers found the dampened fabric at the tip and slid down his length. 

He had fallen silent, his eyes locked on me, fiery. His face was controlled but his chest rose and fell rapidly. His pupils were hugely dilated. His fingers dug into my inner thigh, subduing me. My hand rested quiescently on his twitching cock and I sat under the spell of his demanding ferocity. I don’t remember his last name, I thought absurdly. He followed the straps of my garters upward to stroke the lips of my pussy through my panties. I felt myself gush onto his fingers. My muscles were locked. I wanted to thrust into his touch, but I was acutely aware that I must hold myself still, my burning face impassive. I moved my hand again, pressing in and sliding down, letting up on the pressure to glide back up to the tip and play with it before luxuriating in another downstroke. Touch more! I pleaded silently. He responded, yanking the crotch of my panties aside, dipping his fingertips into my slippery cleft, and pressing inward. My hand paused in its lascivious elicitation of his precum. I was too overcome with sensation and the need to not show my reaction to it at this table full of respectable elderly strangers. He traced the folds upward, finding my clit and leisurely, delicately tracing up and down along it. Then he withdrew. Wiped his fingers on his own pant leg. Gently grasped my hand in his and guided it firmly down and up his cock one more time before placing it back on my lap. Leaned in and whispered, “Time to calm down. For now.” 

I heaved a shaky breath. Around us, people’s attention was being drawn toward the head table. There were speeches. There was cake. Steve’s leg rested against mine again. He saw me looking at him and casually raised his fingers to his face and inhaled deeply. 

The various traditions and rituals associated with wedding receptions had never seemed so superfluous, although they were well done and as touching as one could expect when the newlyweds were such an obvious good match, and properly doted on by both families. Julia and Tim’s eyes frequently met and they quirked little looks at each other that made me think that although they were disposed to tolerate the goings on with a good will, they were ready enough to make their escape together. I, and my throbbing, frustrated pussy, sympathized.

Oh, but there was yet to be dancing. The couple did look thrilled to have gotten to that point in the afternoon, no surprise since they were lovers of the limelight. Predictably, their first dance turned into an ambivalently coordinated but enthusiastic Flashdance flashmob consisting of their attendants and assorted other co-conspirators. Suddenly the bridesmaids’ hairstyles made a lot more sense too. Now it was clear there was no slipping out early without missing a memorable afternoon. Steve seemed inclined to draw things out anyway.

The bride danced with her dad, and the groom with his mother, and all the while I wondered if Steve would put his hand back where I wanted it while everyone was distracted. But the moment the dance floor opened, his hand grabbed mine and we were out of our seats. “I don’t know what you’re expecting, but I am about the same kind of dancer as Whitney.” Our venerable tablemate was doing something that might be the Macarena to 1000 Years and Ned was nodding along beside her, his eyes alight. 

“I like her enthusiasm,” Steve said, dragging me firmly toward the dance floor. “Besides,” he muttered into my ear, ”Your job is to block everyone’s view of my erection.” My face heated I felt giddy enough that my feet had to supervise themselves through the first steps. He was no middle school dance sway-limpet, but he wasn’t a show-off either, and I found that I could keep up. It might have helped that I was too out of my head with lust to get in my own way. I allowed myself to imagine that my body knew his, and fell into step with his as naturally as we would later, without clothes or an audience. 

The music changed to something fast, silly, and totally inappropriate for close dancing. Steve leapt into the line and hammed it up, while I was adopted by a cluster of motherly types who defaulted to the Twist whenever the music got up to a certain tempo. I Twisted with all my heart, because the day had filled me with too much exuberance to just stand there, nodding and foot-tapping and playing it cool. Steve caught my eye as we were panting and laughing it off, and the DJ, taking a request, cued up Hava Nagila. Catholic wedding guests milled briefly in confusion until the teen who’d requested the song, his sister, and his mom showed us how it was done. I’d been the goyische girlfriend to enough good Jewish boys and girls that I felt called to help out. I tucked Steve’s elbow in mine and we joined the fray, gamely keeping up the circle as the kid busted all his best bar mitzvah moves, showing off knees and hamstrings yet undamaged by time. There was cheering and more laughter. Steve swept me up in a kiss, and we laughed into each other’s mouths, then caught our breath, forehead tipped to forehead.

That was not enough, but the merriment whirled around us, making only enough space for that one moment. The DJ had had enough of sweat and silliness on his dance floor, and crossfaded to a power ballad that could sop up the energy and divert it to partner dancing. My mind was clear enough to wonder where they’d found a for-hire treasure like that, but not for very long. Slow dancing promised full-body contact, which I craved, but Steve had other things in mind. We danced, he inexorably leading us toward the edge by the french doors to the courtyard. I didn’t try to slow our progress, although I made myself an enthusiastic distraction, pressing close enough to feel his motivation for making an escape. That motivation burned through the thin silk against my waist.

A pair of diehard smokers hovered as close to the doors as they were legally allowed to, and hand in hand now, we dodged them, making for the benches at the far end by unspoken accord. His hand was large and lean, warm and dry, fingers softened, I imagined, by their far-too-brief immersion in my juices. I stroked them with my own as we approached our spot, a patch of manicured grass behind the hedge that backed the benches, beneath a trio of satyr busts on pedestals. A plain gray metal door with a dirty wagon and a couple buckets next to it was the only break in the building’s facade at this end of the courtyard. Good. It had the advantage of putting a large fountain and those bushes between us and the smokers, and of not being a narrow, hard stone bench. I’d expected to be all over each other as soon as we had sat down in some privacy, but we were still, holding hands at a decorous distance apart. The hot afternoon had brought out dragonflies, which gave us something to watch together. The moment stretched and pooled between us like poured honey. Our fingers slid and explored together. We scrutinized each other sidelong, approvingly, as we shared the view of tidy formal garden and dragonflies. The sweet, insistent pulse in my pussy had not quieted. The warm air brushed my skin and his. 

All at once our hands were done being satisfied with palm to palm, and the fabric of his trousers was under mine, and his was on back. Our mouths came together in a mad scramble to close the distance between us. 

“You keep a condom in your purse?” he yelped when I brandished it, having fumbled blindly and one-armed, not desisting from the kiss until it was broken by his incredulity at my maneuver. All my efforts for naught.

“What, you don’t?”

“Hmm?” he said, distracted by my fingertips on his collarbone.

“Keep a condom in your purse?”

He turned out the pockets of his dress pants sheepishly, revealing keys, wallet, gum, and phone. “No room.”

“Priorities!” I crowed, and set the condom on the grass beside his pocket stuff.

“Whatever the opposite of second thoughts is, I’m having that. Get over here,” he commanded breathlessly. 

This time when we kissed, my hands were both free to roam his chest and shoulders, pulling his shirt and undershirt free of his waistband to skim over muscle and his scattering of dark hair. His hands were less intrusive, one holding him up over me while the other fluttered eagerly around my breast, but finding itself thwarted by that damned tactical bra, settled firmly on my waist, fingers teasing the silk and my sensitive skin beneath it. 

That would not do, and at the next chance when we came up for air, I reached behind my back to unhook the structural underpinnings. Strapless, it was easy to pull out and toss onto the pile of stuff on the grass beside us. “I hope you don’t mind,” I said, abashed after the fact. “Whether or not you want to get me naked, I think I am done with wearing that thing for today.”

He was laughing at least. “I most definitely do not mind. I see your bra and I raise you… “ His belt slithered from its loops and sailed across the short distance to land atop my bra. 

“That is hardly an equivalent,” I said, but took off my shoes. There was abundant opportunity to stretch and flex my legs and let my skirt ride up.

His shoes followed, and his tie, and his shirt buttons.

“I am at a disadvantage here. You have more layers.”

“Pantyhose?” he suggested hopefully. 

I shot him a look and took off my earrings, raking fingers through my hair to show off my long neck, hoping he would take the hint and kiss and bite there, where I was preternaturally sensitive.

His eyes didn’t leave my face as he removed shirt, undershirt, and pants. “Does that level the playing field for you?” he asked tauntingly, standing in the sunshine on the grass wearing nothing but boxer-briefs and socks.

“I am suddenly not interested in fairness, it seems,” I murmured, eyes fixated on the huge wet spot at the head of his cock. Outlined in black fabric, it looked thick and rose almost to the waistband. Suddenly overwhelmed with the certainty that it would taste the way he smelled with key and urgently cravable additions, I licked my lips. 

“Really,” Steve said warmly, not oblivious to my unsubtle gaze.

“Stockings next,” I said. “Prepare yourself. Getting out of these is quite the production.” 

“I am your most captivated audience,” he assured me, settling back down in the grass. He reached out and stroked my ankle. “But first, I would like to kiss you some more.” 

What kind of erotic mindfuck artist was he, leading me to the point that I wanted to strip for him and then holding me back for more innocent kisses? But he was back to devouring my mouth for only a moment before he moved to my jaw and then - oh yes, he had read my mind - to my neck. I found myself writhing against him as he nibbled and sucked earlobe, collarbone, and everything in between. My hands searched and found his side, his hips, his ass, wringing a groan out of his throat. His mouth moved to my nipple, first through the green silk, making a hot moist mess of it, and then pulling it aside to suck. I found his cock with my hands again, feeling out its shape, squeezing, pressing, seeing which made him catch his breath and rut into my grasp. 

“God, Tilly!” he mumbled into my neck, his fingers feverishly maneuvering the gusset of my panties aside to again, finally, stroke my clit. A finger slid into my soaked pussy and then two, deeply, while his thumb somehow still deftly titillated my clit. The work of my hands became clumsy and he took over merely thrusting into the pressure that I provided. I came to my senses long enough to scrabble at his underpants, pulling them down as far as his thighs so I could stroke his heated, slick rod and elicit further delicious noises from his throat. He finished the work of kicking them off. 

“Now!” I pleaded, reaching for the condom and patting the grass erratically until I found it. I was tearing the wrapper and rolling it down, easing it over his girth until the root of his cock was safely encircled. He received this treatment with eyes shuttered, deeply breathing. Then in one surge of motion, I wrenched my panties off and kicked them away. I flung myself down beside him, the skirt of my dress pulled up to my waist, my garter belt hugging my hips, but bare to him. “Now,” I insisted, impatiently.

“Oh, we’re on my timeline,” he growled. He still had the presence of mind for complete sentences? He pulled me roughly across the grass to him, loomed over me, bit my breast through my dress, dragged his face down his belly, and then, after pausing and raising his face to meet my eyes with a look that was a mixture of question and smug certainty of my answer, he leaned into lick my cleft like a musician plucking the string of a valuable instrument. It pleased him apparently, because he dove in to quench himself with enthusiasm, leaving me, leg-shaking, head-tossing, riding the crescendo.

It was glorious but it did not last long because I wanted to come on that cock. There was a hollow ache deep in me that it, and nothing else, could reach and ease. I tugged on his hair, gently, I hoped, and pulled him up to me for a kiss drenched in my own juices. He was still rock-hard, and I guided him into me. He sank all the way in on the first stroke, and we settled there, stunned by the intensity and perfection of it. 

We set up a rhythm that drove us both higher, sucking down kisses in between gasps and moans. We raced each other to the edge and held back, one, two times. The he flipped us over, settling me on top of him and holding me up as I rode him, rising and falling on him and letting the thick length of his cock massage that forlorn ache away as it built a tidal wave of orgasm within me. I muffled my screams in his collarbone and he cried out a harsh, broken note into my hair as he pulsed and gushed inside me. 

The condom necessitated that we move quickly to secure its contents, but with it knotted up and set aside, we nestled down together in the warm grass to catch our breath. 

“I see you did remember my name,” I said. 

“Oh yes. How could I forget that?” He was stroking my hair, making me deliciously sleepy.

“I don’t know your last name,” I said, shamefacedly.

“Adler,” he said. “I forgive you. I don’t know how you would have known it to begin with.” 

“Well, that makes this officially not an anonymous hookup.”

“Oh no, this is a full disclosure, cards on the table hookup,” he said, his dark green eyes even darker with pupil-dilated sincerity.

“With option for future hookups?” I asked, trying for lightness.

“Oh yes. I haven’t even seen you naked yet. I don’t know your opinion on Noel Coward yet. There’s much yet to explore. Potentially years, potentially decades of discovery.” 

“Noel Coward is great in small doses. Busy tonight?” My heart was pounding hard again.

“My calendar is all yours until Monday. And Noel Coward is a god.”

“And on Monday?”

“On Monday, I send you a link to my calendar.”

“Aha,” I said, grinning. 

We helped each other to put our clothes back on, straighten out our hair and pick the grass out of it, collect purse and pocket stuff, and saunter back to the reception. We either had not been missed, or those who had missed us were too discreet or embarrassed to mention it. In between dancing, coffee and yet more cake, and wishing the bride and groom the best before they headed off, I fired off a text to Lisa. It was nothing but a picture of Steve, with his hair only slightly disheveled. 

GO YOU!!!!!!! I received back, but I didn’t see it until very late the next morning.


End file.
